2

Unlike Jim Pledo, Mr. George Smiley is not good at walking in the rain, especially late at night. Seriously, he's likely to be what Bill Roach will eventually look like in the future. Stocky and stocky, at most middle-aged, he was of the kind of unrivaled, gentle and docile people common in London. His legs were short, his gait was not at all nimble, and his clothes were of a fine texture, but they were not up to size, and he was drenched by this time. His coat had the smell of an old bachelor, the black material and the fluffy weave seemed to preserve moisture. Either his sleeves were too long, or his arms were too short, and like Roach, he wore a raincoat with cuffs that always barely covered his fingers. For the sake of love decency, he does not wear hats, because wearing hats makes him look ridiculous, and it is true. "Like a little egg." His beautiful wife had said so shortly before she had left him recently, and her comments tended to have a long-term effect, and this one was no exception. As a result, the rain continued to form large droplets of water on the lenses of his thick spectacles, so that he had to look down and look up for a moment to see the sidewalk beside the soot-blackened arch of Victoria Station. He was heading west back to the Chelsea housing where he lived. His gait, for some unknown reason, hesitated slightly, and if Jim Pledo had come out of the darkness and asked him if he had any friends, he would probably have replied that it would be nice to call a taxi if he had no friends.

"Roddy talks endlessly." He muttered to himself as a torrent of rain fell on his chubby cheeks and into his already soaked shirt, "Why don't I get up and leave?" ”

Smiley regretted it for a moment, and once again examined the reason for his current miserable situation, and concluded that it was entirely self-inflicted. Such a calm attitude is inseparable from his humility.

The day was not smooth from the start. He slept too late the night before, waking up especially late in the morning, which has slowly become a habit since he retired last year. When he found out that he had run out of coffee, he went to the grocery store to stand in line, but he lost his patience and decided to do something about his personal life. A bank statement from the postman in the morning showed that his wife had withdrawn most of his monthly pension. He thought, okay, then sell something. The decision was a bit of a push-on, because he was financially good and the small bank in charge of his pension made monthly payments and never defaulted. But he still packed up a rare first edition of Grimmelshausen's writings that he had collected as a student at Oxford, and solemnly went to the Heywood Hill bookshop on Curzon Street, where he occasionally made a friendly deal or two with the shopkeeper. The more he thought about it on the road, the more angry he became, and he made an appointment with his lawyer in a public phone booth to see him in the afternoon.

"George, how can you be so vulgar? No one is going to divorce Ann. Give her a bouquet of flowers, and come to me for lunch. ”

This exhortation lifted his spirits a little, and he was in a good mood when he went to the Heywood Hill bookshop, but he was confronted by Roddy Martintail, who happened to be sent out from the Jonpei Barber Shop after his weekly haircut.

Professionally and socially, Martin Yard was not qualified to associate with Smiley. He worked in the communications department of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and his task was to host luncheons for foreign guests who did not even want to be in the firewood room. He was an elusive bachelor with gray hair, and his movements were the agility and lightness of a fat man. He likes to put flowers on the buttonholes of the lapels of his jackets, wear light-colored clothes, and when he has the slightest opportunity, he likes to pull and pull as if he is familiar with the confidential department of Whitehall. A few years ago, he had been part of a unified spy team in Whitehall, but it was soon disbanded. During the war, because of his mathematical talents, he also wandered on the fringes of the secret work circle, and at one point participated in a short-lived cipher work with John Lansbury in the Roundfield, which he always brought up endlessly. But the war was thirty years ago, and Smiley sometimes had to remind himself of that.

"Hello, Roddy," Smiley said, "it's a pleasure to see you." ”

Martin Tyre had a habit of shouting loudly when the upper class spoke from the bottom of his mind, and on more than one occasion when he was on vacation in a foreign country, he embarrassed Smiley so much that he hurriedly moved out of the hotel and found a place to hide.

"Good fellow, isn't that the spy master himself! They say you've gone to a place like St. Gallen's Abbey and studied medieval manuscripts behind closed doors with the monks! Please confess to me right away. I want to know what you're doing, and I don't miss a thing. How are you doing? Still love the UK? Is your pretty wife good? His wandering gaze swept down the street, ending up on the wrapped volume of Grimes Hausen's book under Smiley's armpit, "I bet this must have been your gift to her." They say you've spoiled her. He lowered his voice, but it was still deafening: "I said, are you back to your old job?" Don't tell me it's all just cover, George, is it cover? His pointed tongue licked the wet lips of his little mouth, and then, like a snake, disappeared into his mouth again.

Thus, although Smiley reproached himself for being stupid, he agreed to go to dinner that evening at a club in Manchester Square, of which they were both members, and finally sent him away. One of the reasons Smiley usually fears and avoids that club is because Martintyre is also a member. In the evening, the lunch he had eaten at the White Tower was still full and undigested, because his lawyer was a man who never treated him badly, and thought that only a good meal could get George out of his depression. Martintyre came to the same conclusion in a different way, and for four hours they were in front of them with dishes that Smiley didn't want to eat, and talking about the names of acquaintances as if they were forgotten football players. First, he talked about Smiley's former mentor, Jebidi: "God bless us for our great loss." Martintyre muttered, but as far as Smiley knew, Martintyre had never seen Jabid. Alas, what a connoisseur, don't you say? It can be said that he is a truly talented person. Then he said of Fielding, a French expert on the Middle Ages from Cambridge University: "What a sense of humor! Clear-headed and very sharp! "Then there was Spark from the School of Oriental Languages, and finally there was Steed Aspre. The club was founded by him to escape the vulgarity of Roddy Martintyre.

"You know, I know his poor brother. Simple-minded and well-developed limbs. The mind is used in other ways. ”

Smiley listened to his nonsense in a drunken state, and from time to time he echoed "yes", "no", "what a pity", "no, they never found him", and once made him blush for a long time: "Alas, don't say that, you have won the prize." Finally, Martin Tyre finally talks about something recent: the change of power and Smiley's retirement.

As expected, he began his last days as a CEO: "God bless your old boss, George, he is the only one who can keep his name a secret." Of course, it's not a secret from you, he's never hidden anything from you, has he, George? They said that Smiley and the boss were like brothers until death. ”

"They've won the prize."

"Don't worry, George. You forgot that I'm an old bird. You and the boss are like that. His chubby hand made a gesture to symbolize marriage, "That's why you got out, don't lie to me, that's why Bill Hayden got your mission." That's why he, not you, became Pansy Allerlane's assistant. ”

"If you say that, I can't help it, Roddy."

"I'm going to say this. I'm going to say much more than that. ”

As Martin Tyre leaned over, Smiley smelled a pungent scent of perfume peculiar to Jonpei's barbershop.

"I would also like to say that the boss is not dead at all. Someone saw him. He hurriedly shook his hand to prevent Smiley from denying it, "Let me finish my sentence." Willy Andrew Washa met him in the departure lounge of Johannesburg Airport. Not a ghost. Vivid. Willy buys a soda at the bar because it's too hot, you haven't seen Willy lately, he's as fat as a balloon. He turned around, and the boss sat next to him, dressed in a Boer outfit, unsightly and frightening. As soon as he saw Willy, he slipped away. What do you think? So we all know that. The boss didn't die at all. He was ostracized by Pansy Allerlane and his gang of three, so he went into hiding in South Africa, may God bless him. But you can't blame him, can you? Everyone wants to spend their old age in peace, how can you blame him? I don't blame him. ”

Smiley was exhausted, his nerves became more and more numb, and it took him a long time to understand the absurdity of this rumor, and he was speechless for a while.

"Nonsense! I've never heard anything so ridiculous! The boss is dead. He died of a heart attack after a long illness. And he doesn't like South Africa the most. He doesn't like anything but Surrey, the round, the noble cricket ground. Really, Roddy, you can't spread such rumors. He could have added: I watched him buried in a crematorium in London's East End alone on Christmas Eve last Christmas. The pastor stuttered as he spoke.

"Willy Andrewasha always likes to tell nonsense," Martin Tyre mused, unconcernedly, "and I said to him: 'It's utter nonsense, Willy, and you should be embarrassed. It was as if he had never believed such a foolish rumor, either mentally or verbally. He immediately added: "The last nail in the boss's coffin is probably the Czech incident." The poor fellow, who had been shot in the back, reported the matter to the letter, and heard that he had been close to Bill Haydn. Ellis, we have to call him by this name, even though we know his real name as surely as we know our own, we still have to call him that, don't we? ”

Martintyre was a thief, he waited for Smiley to answer, but Smiley didn't want to take the bait, so Martintyre had another plan.

"Somehow, I can't always be too comfortable with Pansy Allerlane as the head, but what about you? George, is it because of age, or is it just because I'm not gullible by nature? You're good at getting along with people, you have to tell me. I don't think any of us who debuted together are fit to be in power. Is this a clue? There are very few people who can convince me these days, and I always think that Pansy is clearly such a person, especially with the old fox boss. He is popular, and no one takes him seriously. Just think of the old days when he used to hang out in the 'traveler' bar, with his big pipe in his mouth, and buy drinks for some of the chiefs. Seriously, no one wants to make treachery too blatant, do you agree or not? Or as long as you can succeed, you don't care? What the hell is his trick, George, what is his secret sauce? He spoke intently, leaning forward, his eyes greedy and excited, and beyond that, only eating and drinking could make him so excited, "to live by the intelligence of his subordinates." However, this may be the ability to lead today. ”

"Really, Roddy, I can't help you," Smiley said weakly, "I never knew Pansy was an influencer, you know, I just knew he was—" He couldn't remember any words to describe it.

"He's a climber," Martin Tail's eyes sparkled, "and his eyes were fixed on the boss's yellow robe all day long." Now that he is wearing a yellow robe, everyone embraces him. So who is his right and left hand, George? Who is giving him meritorious service? By all accounts, he did a good job. In the Admiralty's reading room of classified documents, in the subcommittees set up under all sorts of quirky names, Pansy rolled out the red carpet in any corridor of Whitehall, some of the under-ministers received special praise from their superiors, and the little-known received medals for no reason. You know, this, I've seen it before. ”

"Roddy, I can't help you," Smiley said, trying to get to his feet, "really, I can't help you. But Martindale stopped him, pressed him to the edge of the table with a greasy hand, and spoke faster.

"So who is the kobold strategist? Certainly not Pansy herself. I also don't believe that the Americans are starting to trust us again. His grip tightened, "It's the ruthless Bill Haydn, our contemporary Lawrence of Arabia, God bless him." Lo and behold, it's Bill, your old rival. Martindair's tongue stuck out again, lingering for a moment before retracting again, leaving a thin smile. I've heard that you and Bill were at one point indistinguishable from each other," he said, "but he was never orthodox, was he?" Genius will never be orthodox. ”

"Mr. Smiley, do you want anything more?" The waiter came and asked.

"And then there's Brand: the faded hope of purity, Mr. Teach at the Red Brick University." But he still didn't let go of Smiley, "If it wasn't planned by these two people, it's a retired person, isn't it?" I mean, a guy who pretends to be retired. If the boss is dead, then who else? Except for you. ”

They began to wear overcoats. The janitor is already off work. They had to take their coats off the empty brown coat racks.

"Roe Brand didn't come from a red-brick university." Smiley exclaimed, "If you want to know, then I can tell you that he attended St. Anthony's College in Oxford. ”

Smiley thought to himself, God help, that's all I can do.

"Don't be stupid, dear." Martin Tyre said unhappily. Smiley disappointed him: his face was pale, as if he had been deceived, and uncomfortable sagging folds appeared in the lower part of his cheeks. "St. Anthony's College is, of course, a red brick university, and a small patch of sand and rocks on the same street can't change that, even if he's your subordinate. I think he's gone down to Bill Haydon now—don't tip him, it's me, not you. Bill is now their senior—and so was he. They can circle around him. He's got his charm, though, isn't he? Unlike some of us. I said that this is the qualification to be a star, and it belongs to a very small number of outstanding people. I was told that the women would bow down completely before him, if the women could bow down. ”

"Good night, Roddy."

"Don't forget to say hello to Ahn."

"I won't forget."

"Then don't forget."

Now that the rain was falling heavily, Smiley was soaking wet, and God had punished him by hiding all the taxis on the streets of London.